His skin was a scroll of enticing scriptures, bedded on an endless sheet of hot, olive flesh. Every morning she pretended to glaze over her morning paper, instead reading each one of his tattoos subtly. She’d position the daily news strategically in an eye line where the placement of her coffee, the seasonal flowers on her regular outdoor table and his vascular arm, pulsing with what she assumed was unrequited lust, would intersect, as he served her regular order and said,
“Here’s your regular ma’am.”
She began to wonder what her regular was to him. She’d been coming to this café for a few tireless months, putting one stilettoed foot in front of another along the tiled floors, and taking to her regular front spot. She regularly sported something understatedly sexy, balancing a low-cut top with tailored pants or a tight pencil skirt with an ‘all-to-the-imagination’ blouse. Surely, he loved a balanced and calculated woman? She could see it in the way he creased his brow so definitively above his almond-shaped hazel coloured eyes and occasionally glanced at her. She saw the way he licked his top lip between frothing nut-based milks for recently vegan mothers and steaming kettle pots too close to his chest so the moisture gathered and created a pool of slippery enticement.
What if her regular meant something more to him? Where she just sipped a comforting cup of warm liquids between parted lips, did he image ripping the newspaper from her hands, placing it underneath his knees, and parting her legs to indulge in his own warm concoction? While she ordered grinded beans from Lima in the latest house blend, did he picture bending her over, ripping the seams of her pencil skirt to either side of the floor and grinding away until they created their own perfect, steaming house blend?
Her regular, from this man, were her hands tied behind her head, while he dripped and licked shots of hazelnut liquor over her bare chest. It was endless orgasms, from ice cubes clutched between his square teeth, tracing the outline of her legs and body in slow, circular motions, licking each drop that spilled over from the heat of their bodies. It was the muffled screams of pleasure that escaped from between his fingers and her clasped mouth as they snuck to a private room to satisfy unquantified desires for each other in the middle of the day.
She envisioned him clutching the back of her head in a gentle grasp, and knotting his fingers through her hair, while drawing his lips from her cleavage to her ear and whispering playfully how he was to give her ‘the regular’ in above average packaging. And then he’d switch between serving her single and double shots, extra strength and gentle, smooth, pulsing blends. He’d dip the tips of her fingers in powdered chocolate, and lick them clean, before sliding his own between her thighs and indulging in her again.
Her regular, she imagined, was an endless, perpetually refilled, steaming cup of sensations, both aromatic and full-bodied.
“Here’s your regular ma’am.”
Alas her regular was this – sitting cross legged at the knee, with a tightly clutched newspaper between two hands, and the hint of an over-caffeinated breath lingering between parted lips, as she whispered a soundless ‘goodbye’ to her unrequited love for another morning.
By Gloria Collins